Trapper and Emmeline (6 page)

where would you look? Look at one place, you miss the other places. It was torture.

“We definitely need to do more research into this,” she said. “That was amazing, too. I think your friends are total y gross (sorry), but it was a power trip to fuck with them. It was a turn-on to see them trying not to stare.”

“I wouldn’t cal them friends,” I said. “People respect friends.”

“If you real y don’t mind, I might try hanging out in my underwear when I’m here. Just make it a normal thing.”

She real y knew how to punch my buttons. “Come over here, Emmy.”

She wavered, seeing that my cock was hard again.

“No, let’s cut the jeans up. The guys want to take us out. Free drinks!”

Not wanting to rush things too fast, I gave Emmeline every opportunity to limit or even back out of the jeans-cutting project. I even let her take control of the scissors, tel ing her I was inexperienced with cutting clothes—this was a huge concession on my part. Here I had the beautiful woman of my dreams almost fighting me to enact one of my long-standing fantasies, and I was turning into a nice-guy. Every time I had fantasized about this scene, I was the one with the scissors, making judicious cuts to the jeans with a male’s close attention to style. In my fantasies, I was the one making the jeans as showy and attention grabbing as possible, while the girl flinched with every cut I made, but eventual y decided she couldn’t wait to wear them.

In reality, Emmeline was more radical than my wildest dreams.

“Let’s start with the left cheek,” she said. Her jeans were already a little worn, so we could see where they hung on her ass. She slid the scissors into the frayed fabric, and made a cut five inches long. “Is that enough?”

I whistled. “Thaaat’s pretty showy.”

We couldn’t screw this up, since we only had one pair of jeans. The pair she had worn to my apartment would be the pair she would wear out to the bars, and then home to Queens.

She said, “Most of the thrashed butt-pants I’ve seen have a hole for each cheek.”

She made another big cut on the other side.

“That’s going to be… wow…”

“I want it like that woman we fol owed today,” she said.

“Her pants were open al the way across,” I said.
Why am I still talking?
I was having a deep conflict, warring between wanting to stop her from destroying her jeans, and wanting to see what she thought was appropriate to flaunt at a bar.

“Are you sure you remember her ass clearly?” she asked. “Never mind. Look who I’m talking to.”

“She didn’t look slutty or desperate, just sexy and grungy.”

“I want to be the same.”

“Hold on a second,” I said. “Let’s see how this looks first.”

She gave me a pitying look. “Trapper, you can be such a little girl sometimes.”

She completed the opening, cutting across the seam. Her jeans now had a 12-inch gash right above her butt cheeks.

“That doesn’t look right,” she said, turning her head back and forth. “What did I do wrong?”

“The other woman’s jeans weren’t cut. Her ass was total y ripped out. She was open from her pockets down to the top of her thighs. It was like a big window right into her crotch.”

“That’s right! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Do you think she usual y wears her boyfriend’s boxers, but today just decided to go without, because she was in a hurry and only doing a little shopping? And then one errand stretched into another until it fil ed her whole day?”

“How the heck would I know that, Emmy?”

“That’s going to be my story, if someone cal s me out on these.”

She judiciously chopped the rest of the ass of her jeans. The gash turned into a lose-lipped, thready, distressed hole that ranged between four and six inches wide. Then she flipped the jeans over and cut out the front pockets. She even cut out the denim backing at the top, so the soft skin of her inner hips would always be on display through the wide gaps.

Then she attacked the belt-line, which also entailed cutting off the top button of the fly. Jeans are tough to cut, so she eventual y delegated that part to me. She went back into the apartment, stil in bra and panties, to recover her blouse. My roommates locked her down for a half hour, asking her about herself and showing her various banal features of the apartment. Anything to keep her near and mostly naked. Final y they found the blouse wadded up under the sofa. It looked miserable, and was missing its top three buttons.

She returned to the room just as I finished cutting out the knees of the jeans.

“This shirt is going to show a lot of bra,” she declared. “And my bra is a ‘wear under’ sort of bra, not a ‘display’ sort of bra.”

“You want one of my shirts?”

“No,” she said. “I’m going to soldier through. I want you to be prepared, though. Let’s give this outfit a road test.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” She held her hand out. “Give me the jeans, and don’t tel me if it looks horrible. I don’t have any choice except to wear them.”

She pul ed them on careful y, needing to make sure her feet didn’t come out of any of the gaping new holes. These weren’t tight jeans, but they weren’t baggy-fit either. Though the top button of the fly was gone, they were stil effective as hip-huggers and didn’t slide down her ass. Her inner hips were visible through the missing front pockets. Very provocative.

The mainstay of the outfit was her ass. She strained around, trying to see it from above. That didn’t work, so she had to rely on my feedback—and I was drooling so much that I sprayed saliva when I tried to talk.

There was enough of the ass missing that, if she weren’t wearing panties, I could have bent her over my bed and fucked her. Even when she was standing up, you could see the bulge of her sex from behind, between her taut thighs.

I ran my hand over her ass, relishing how the soft fabric turned to warm ass-skin. There was no hiding her perfect, high ass, or her panties. The cut-out front pockets had the added effect of al owing light down her jeans. From the back, her pussy mound was edge-lit and highly defined.

When she felt my hand move across her ass, she realized just how much was on display.

“Noooo! Crap. You should have stopped me!”

“I tried, if you remember,” I said.

“If I had any choice, we would throw these jeans out in the trash and try again.” She tried to see herself in the reflection off my window. She was physical y shaking. “This is the only pair of jeans we have. I have no choice but to go out like this. I have absolutely no choice—
do I?”

I started to tel her that we had a variety of female clothes in a “Lost and Found” box. The box was for when women visited at night, and then fled the next morning without looking back. In their hurry to escape they left clothes, keepsakes, and even cel phones.

But when she added, “Do I?” I realized I wasn’t supposed to point that out.

Emmeline needed a bit of fiction. She had walked into my apartment with these jeans, she had fucked them up by cutting them to shreds, and now she would walk out with these jeans.

“Yes, you do, Emmy. I’m sorry.”

She buttoned up her shirt. She tried to look nervous and self-conscious but she was breathing quickly and her fingers shook.

“On the other hand,” I said, “no one wil look at your ass with your shirt like that.”

The missing buttons left the shirt open over her breasts. She couldn’t keep her shirt closed, so she made the missing buttons seem intentional. The open part of her shirt now framed her breasts, which were spil ing out of the inadequate coverage of her bra. She was thrash chic, squared and cubed.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said through gritted teeth.

She slipped into her clogs and opened the door. Every movement she made was magnified, somehow, but the fact that her ass was visible. It wasn’t like she was naked, or having a wardrobe malfunction. The magic was in the intentionality of a girl wearing thrashed, old jeans and going onto the sidewalks of Manhattan with them. Any man seeing Emmeline’s breasts bobble past, and who turned and saw the intimate shapes and shadows of her ass, would have to come to terms with the fact that the girl thought this was fitting and appropriate for a night out.

My roommates were waiting by the door, and their faces lit up to see Emmeline again. They had gotten quite a tour of her body that evening… wel , so had I. They froze in place to take in her outfit—al breast and hip skin, capped by her beautiful face and a tight, expectant smile. She brushed through them with a tril ing laugh. They turned to fol ow and I watched their faces change when they saw her ass.

Emmeline ignored their questions. She was too restless to wait more than ten seconds for the elevator. She jabbed

her thumb down the hal and turned on her heel. Her movements were electrified, her skin was flushed. She went for the stairs and we perforce had to fol ow or lose sight of her.

Saul whispered into my ear, “What the hel , man? We’re only human.”

“What do you mean?”

“How did a sweet little col ege girl get trapped in the body of a sex demon?”

“I know she’s a little showy, but don’t make her feel self-conscious.”

“What if I grab her? Would that make her self-conscious?”

My poor Emmy.
What had I gotten her into? Her outfit was basical y designed to make a good dog break his leash.

Men would be thinking the worst thoughts about her when she brushed past. Some of those men would be impulsive, and act on those thoughts.

I said to Saul, “You’re right. We have to protect her tonight. There are a lot of assholes out there.”

“I was thinking of myself.”

I rested a hand on his shoulder and gave a squeeze that didn’t end. “If you make her feel bad about herself,” I said, “I wil cut your throat in your sleep. I’m your roommate. I know exactly which drawer the knives are in.”

He grinned, but the grin faded when I didn’t return it.

“I’m serious, Saul. You assholes already fucked up today by putting her naked on fucking Facebook. Anything else, and shit gets serious.”

Saul nodded. I didn’t just have the moral high ground, I had the moral Alps. He ate my threat and submitted.

I added, “Tel the other guys, and make sure they understand, okay?”

We reached street level, and entered a strange world where men stared at Emmeline and glared at us with venomous jealousy. A world where Emmeline could ask for things, like a bowl of olives, a basket of buffalo wings, and pitchers of beer, and they were delivered to the table for free. A world where, with a displaced feeling of ownership and pride, we watched men flirt with her mercilessly, and drag her to the dance floor, and bring her back flushed and flustered and happy.

After we downed a pitcher or two of beer, she wasn’t just my Emmeline. She was
our
Emmeline. We merry band of brothers. Al of us relished this new plaything, this new way of experiencing the world. This was our first time with a hot babe who was letting it al hang out. It was addictive.

When Emmeline went to the bar, and eased over it to whisper in the bartender’s ear, her huge breasts swel ed out of the open shirt and tiny bra, and her ridiculous stretched-open ass pointed back at al the disbelieving pick-up artists in the bar. She always returned with yet another free pitcher of beer and an incredulous smile.

She was a devastating combination of innocence and temptation. You stared at her body; you were smitten by her humor. One by one through the night, my roommates fel in love with her. (So did more than a few would-be Romeos from the bar.) Emmeline could do no wrong, even when she threw up on Andy. She did no wrong, even when she let some guy slip his hand in her shirt while they danced, and I had to pul them apart.

Which started a fight.

I didn’t back down. For once, I stood my ground. “This is Emmeline, dude! Treat her right.” Emmeline was awesome—

and I was a bit drunk. He tried to hit me but I swatted him away. Fights are terrifying but that night I had too much to protect.

I chased him off.

“He’s not the first guy who copped a feel off me,” Emmeline pointed out. “Just the first you saw. Shit like that is going to happen when we chop holes in my pants. I don’t want you being aggressive with everybody—you’l scare al the cute guys away.”

She watched me steadily to make sure I understood. She was experimenting with her new persona—and also drinking heavily and receiving nothing but positive feedback. After we settled that, she let the men leave their hands on her ass—and most of her ass was skin. For Emmeline it was simple, raw flattery—which made me, Trapper, the brand-new boyfriend of unknown disposition, her only limiting factor that night. When I thought about it, I realized I wanted to get out of her way as much as possible.

Zero jealousy. I felt strangely at peace, watching her fil the place with vitality. Little dreams and fantasies swirled after her when she returned to us, and there was always a man watching her, bemused, wishful—his heart set alight.

My roommates and I watched it al like lords of creation. We were benevolent, drunk, and masterful. Emmeline had a hedonistic and affirming night of self-discovery, of which she would remember nothing the next morning.